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LINCOLN  ROOM 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 


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MEMORIAL 

the  Class  of  1901 


I 


founded  by 

HARLAN  HOYT  HORNER 

and 

HENRIETTA  CALHOUN  HORNER 


\ 


THE   BOYHOOD 
OF  LINCOLN 


NOTE 

The  illustratioiis  in  this  hook 
are  reproduced  by  the  courtesy  of 
the  Lincoln  Farm  Association. 


5j 


THE   BOYHOOD   OF   LINCOLN 


BY 


ELEANOR   ATKINSON 


NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

MCMX 


CopyrigJit,  1908,  hy  The  McClure  Company 


Published,  October,  1908 


CopjTight,  1908,  by  The  Phillips  Publishing  Company 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

Nolan  C reeky  in  which  little  Abraham  was 

nearly  drowned  Frontispiece 

FACING 

The  scene  of  Lincoln^ s  birth.     The  pole  on  the  ^^°^ 
knoll  at  the  right  marks  the  spot  where 
the  birthplace  cabin  originally  stood  16 

A  bit  of  the  farm  on  which  Abraham  Lincoln 

was  born  16 

The  Lincoln  farm  spring  is  famous  through- 
out Kentucky  for  the  purity  of  its  water. 
It  was  this  spring  that  invited  Tom 
Lincoln  to  locate  by  it,  and  it  was  the 
boaters  of  this  spring  that  christened  the 
battleship '' Kentucky ''  16 

The  old  Louisville  and  Nashville  pike,  which 

runs  through  the  Lincoln  farm  16 

On  the  edge  of  the  Lincoln  birthplace  farm  32 

The  old  house  on  the  road  to  the  mill  where 

little  Abraham  used  to  stop  for  "  cookies  "       32 


VU 


viii        LIST     OF     ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING 

The  old  Nolan  Mill,   around  which  little  ^^^^ 
Abraham  used  to  play  32 

The  Lincoln  family  mill  stone  which  was  used 
to  grind  the  family  meal  has  for  many 
years  been  used  as  a  door  "  stoop  "  to  the 
house  that  ivas  built  upon  the  farm  after 
the  Lincolns  went  away  32 

On  the  Magnolia  Road  which  runs  from 
Hodgenville  to  the  Lincoln  birthplace 
farm  48 

In  the  country  about  Lincoln" s  first  home  they 
ford  most  of  the  streams  rather  than  build 
bridges  48 


THE   BOYHOOD 
OF   LINCOLN 


'ANT  to  know  what  kind  o' 

boy  Abe  Lincoln  was?  Well, 

I  reckon  old  Dennis  Hanks 

is  the  onl}^  one  livin'  that  knowed  him  that 

arly.  Knowed  him  the  day  he  was  born, 

an'  lived  with  him  most  o'  the  time  till  he 

was  twenty-one  an'  left  home  fur  good. 

*  Abe,'  sez  I,  many  a  time,  *  if  you  die  fust 

folks'll  have  to  come  to  me  to  find  out 

what  kind  o'  boy  you  was.'  We  used  to 

laugh  over  that,  fur  it  looked  like  he'd 

live  longer 'n  me.  I  was  ten  years  older'n 

Abe,   an'   he   was   as   strong  as   a  boss. 

'  Well,  Denny,'  he'd  say,  '  I  don't  want 

you  to  die  fust,  fui'  folks'd  jist  nigh  about 

pester  me  to  death  to  I'arn  what  kind  o' 

boy  you  was.'  He-he-he!  Abe'd  had  his 

3 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

joke  if  he'd  died  the  next  minute."  The 
old  man  chuckled  to  himself  and  lapsed 
into  a  doze  by  the  fire. 

It  was  in  January,  1889,  that  the  ^vrite^ 
spent  a  long,  leisurely  afternoon  with  Lin- 
coln's cousin  and  playmate  in  his  home  in 
Charleston,  Illinois.  He  was  ninety  years 
old  at  that  time,  and  died  three  or  four 
years  later.  He  was  living  with  his  daugh- 
ter, Mrs.  Dowling,  herself  a  great  grand- 
mother of  sixty-nine,  in  a  comfortable 
brick  cottage,  built,  as  she  said,  nearly 
a  half  century  before,  probably  the  first 
brick  house  in  the  town.  The  furniture 
was  so  old-fashioned  that  Tom  Lincoln 
may  well  have  made  some  of  it. 

In  a  pleasant,  low-ceiled  sitting-room, 
with  a  bright  rag-carpet  and  a  coal  fire, 
Dennis  Hanks  sat,  tilted  back  in  a  splint - 
bottomed   chair,   asleep,   in  the   light   of 

the   pale  winter  sunshine  that  streamed 

4 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

through  a  western  window.  A  withered 
figure  of  an  ancient  man  he  was,  in  loose 
black  clothes,  his  slippered  feet  resting  on 
a  rung  of  the  chair,  his  gnarled,  blood- 
less hands  clasped  on  the  top  of  a  thorn 
stick  that  was  polished  by  long  use.  A 
soft,  black  felt  hat  covered  his  head,  a 
thin  fringe  of  silvery  white  hair  falling 
from  under  the  brim  to  his  coat  collar. 
His  face  was  clean-shaven,  and  his  skin 
was  of  that  peculiar,  rosy  transparency 
seen  only  in  first  and  second  childhood. 
Asleep,  the  old  man's  face  was  as  unre- 
flective  as  an  infant's,  but  in  animation 
it  showed  a  curious  resemblance  to  Lin- 
coln's, although  cast  in  a  smaller,  weaker 
mold — the  high  cheek-bones,  broad  fore- 
head, wide  mouth  and  strong  jaw,  and 
the  deep-set  eyes  that  sparkled  with  droll 
memories,  or  were  dimmed  by  tragic  ones. 
He   awoke   suddenly   and   blinked   his 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

eyes,  one  of  which  was  blind,  at  his  visitor, 
with  the  sleepy  amazement  of  a  baby,  and 
her  presence  had  to  be  explained  to  him 
again.  In  his  speech  he  had  many  words 
characteristic  of  the  South,  grafted  on  the 
Western  stock,  although  he  had  left  Ken- 
tucky at  the  age  of  eighteen. 

"  Tom  Linkhorn — hey?  Yes,  that's  the 
way  we  punounced  it,  back  thar  in  Kain- 
tucky,  an'  until  Abe  I'arned  us  better.  But 
I  reckon  I  w^as  too  old  a  dog  to  I'arn  new 
tricks,  an'  I  furgit  sometimes.  Well,  Tom 
an'  Nancy  Hanks  Lincoln  lived  on  a  farm 
in  Hardin  County  about  two  miles  from 
us,  when  Abe  was  bom.  I  ricoUect  Tom 
comin'  over  to  our  house,  one  cold  morn- 
in'  in  Feb'uary  an'  sayin'  kind  o'  slow  an' 
sheepish :  '  Nancy's  got  a  boy  baby.' 

"  Mother  got  flustered  an'  hurried  up 
her  work  to  go  over  to  look  after  the  little 
feller,  but  I  didn't  have  nothin'  to  wait 

6 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

fur,  SO  I  jist  tuk  an  run  the  hull  two 
miles  to  see  my  new  cousin.  Xancy  was 
layin'  thar  in  a  pole  bed  lookin'  purty 
happy.  Tom'd  built  up  a  good  fire  and 
throwed  a  b'ar  skin  over  the  kivers  to  keep 
'em  warm,  an'  set  little  two-year-old  Sairy 
on  the  bed,  to  keep  'er  off  the  dirt  floor. 
Yes,  thar  was  only  a  diii:  floor  in  the 
cabin.  Sairy  ahvays  was  a  say-nothin'  lit- 
tle gal  with  eyes  like  an  owl's,  an'  she  set 
thar  an'  stared  at  the  new  baby,  an'  pinted 
'er  finger  at  him. 

"  You  bet  I  was  tickled  to  death.  Babies 
wasn't  as  plenty  as  blackberries  in  the 
woods  o'  Kaintucky.  Mother  come  over 
an'  washed  him  an'  put  a  yaller  flannen 
petticoat  an'  a  linsey  shirt  on  him,  an' 
cooked  some  dried  berries  with  wild  honev 
fur  Nancy,  an'  slicked  things  up  an'  went 
home.  An'  that's  all  the  nuss'n  either  of 
'em  got.  Lordy!  women  nowadays  don't 

7 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

know  what  their  grandmothers  went 
through  an'  lived — some  of  'em.  A  good 
many  of  'em  died  arly.  Abe's  said  many 
a  time  that  Nancy'd  hved  to  be  old  if 
she'd  had  any  kind  o'  keer,  an'  I  reckon 
she  must  'a'  ben  strong  to  'a'  stood  what 
she  did. 

"  '  What  you  goin'  to  name  him,  Xan- 
cy? '  I  asked  her. 

"  '  Abraham,'  she  says,  '  after  his  gran'- 
father  that  come  out  to  Kaintucky  w^ith 
Dan'l  Boone.  He  was  mighty  smart  an' 
wasn't  afeered  o'  nothin',  an'  that's  what 
a  man  has  to  be  out  here  to  make  any- 
thing out  o'  hisself.' 

"  I  rolled  up  in  a  b'ar  skin  an'  slep'  by 
the  fire-place  that  night,  so  I  could  see 
the  little  feller  when  he  cried,  and  Tom 
had  to  git  up  an'  'tend  to  him.  Nancy 
let  me  hold  him  purty  soon.  Folks  are  al- 
ways askin'  me  if  Abe  was  a  good-lookin' 

8 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

baby.  Well,  now,  he  looked  jist  like  any 
other  baby,  at  fust;  like  red  cherry-pulp 
squeezed  dry,  in  wrinkles.  An'  he  didn't 
improve  none  as  he  growed  older.  Abe 
never  was  much  fur  looks.  I  ricollect  how 
Tom  joked  about  Abe's  long  legs  when 
he  was  toddlin'  round  the  cabin.  He 
growed  out  o'  his  clothes  faster'n  Xancy 
could  make  'em. 

"  But  he  was  mighty  good  comp'ny, 
solemn  as  a  papoose,  but  interf?5fed  in 
everything.  An'  he  always  did  have  fits 
o'  cuttin'  up.  I've  seen  him  when  he  was 
a  little  feller,  settin'  on  a  stool,  starin'  at 
a  visitor.  All  of  a  sudden  he'd  bust  out 
laughin'  fit  to  kill.  If  he  told  us  what  he 
was  laughin'  at,  half  the  time  we  couldn't 
see  no  joke. 

"  Looks  didn't  coimt  them  days,  no- 
how.  It  was  stren'th  an'  work  an'  dare- 
devil. A  lazv  man  or  a  coward  was  list 

9 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

pizen,  an'  a  spindlin'  feller  had  to  stay 

in  the  settlemints.  The  clearin's  hadn't  no 

use   fur  him.    Tom  was   strong,   an'  he 

wasn't  lazy  nor  afeerd  o'  nothin',  but  he 

w^as  kind  o'  shif  less — couldn't  git  nothin' 

ahead,  an'  didn't  keer  putickalar.  Lots  o' 

them  kind  o'  fellers  in  arly  days,  druther 

hunt  an'  fish,  an'  I  reckon  they  had  their 

use.  They  killed  off  the  varmints  an'  made 

it  safe  fur  other  fellers  to  go  into  the 

woods  with  an  ax. 

"  When  Nancy  married  Tom  he  was 

workin'  in  a  carpenter  shop  in  Liztown. 

— EHzabethtown? — Well,  I  reckon.  We 

was    purty   keerless    about    names    them 

days.  It  wasn't  Tom's  fault  he  couldn't 

make   a  livin'   by  his   trade.    Thar   was 

sca'cely  any  money  in  that  kentry.  Every 

man  had  to  do  his  own  tinkerin',  an'  keep 

everlastin'ly  at  work  to  git  enough  to  eat. 

So  Tom  tuk  up  some  land.  It  was  mighty 

10 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

ornery  land,  but  it  was  the  best  Tom  could 
git,  when  he  hadn't  much  to  trade  fur  it. 
"Pore?  We  was  all  pore,  them  days, 
but  the  Lincolns  was  porer  than  anybody. 
Choppin'  trees,  an'  grubbin'  roots,  an' 
splittin'  rails,  an'  huntin'  an'  trappin'  didn't 
leave  Tom  no  time  to  put  a  puncheon 
floor  in  his  cabin.  It  was  all  he  could  do 
to  git  his  fambly  enough  to  eat  and  to 
kiver  'em.  Nancy  was  turrible  ashamed  o' 
the  way  they  lived,  but  she  knowed  Tom 
was  doin'  his  best,  an'  she  w^asn't  the  pes- 
terin'  kind  nohow.  She  was  purty  as  a 
pitcher  an'  smart  as  you'd  find  'em  any- 
w^har.  She  could  read  an'  write.  The 
Hankses  was  some  smarter'n  the  Lin- 
colns. Tom  thought  a  heap  o'  Nancy,  an' 
was  as  good  to  her  as  he  knowed  how. 
He  didn't  drink,  or  swear,  or  play  cyards, 
or  fight;  an'  them  was  drinkin',  cussin', 

quarrelsome  days.  Tom  was  popylar,  an' 

11 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

he  could  lick  a  bully  if  he  had  to.  He 

jist  couldn't  git  ahead,  somehow. 

"  It  didn't  seem  no  time  till  Abe  was 

runnin'  'round  in  buckskin  moccasins  an' 

breeches,   a  tow-linen  shirt  an'   coonskin 

cap.  Yes,  that's  the  way  we  all  dressed 

them  days.  We  couldn't  keep  sheep  fur 

the   wolves,    an'   pore   folks   didn't   have 

sca'cely  any  flax  except  what  they  could 

git  tradin'  skins.  We  wasn't  much  better 

off'n  Injuns,  except  't  we  tuk  an  intrust 

in  religion  and  polytics.  We  et  game  an' 

fish,  an'  wild  berries  an'  lye  hominv,  an' 

kep'    a    cow.    Sometimes    we    had    corn 

enough    to    pay    fur    grindin'    meal    an' 

sometimes  we  didn't,  or  thar  wasn't  no 

mill  nigh   enough.  When  it   got   so  we 

could  keep  chickens,  an'  have  salt  pork 

an'   corn   dodgers,   an'   gyardin  sass  an' 

molasses,  an'  have  jeans  pants  an'  cowhide 

boots  to  wear,  we  felt  as  if  we  was  gittin' 

12 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

along  in  the  world.  But  that  was  some 
years  later. 

"  Abe  never  give  Nancy  no  trouble 
after  he  could  walk  except  to  keep  him 
in  clothes.  Most  o'  the  time  we  went  b'ar- 
foot.  Ever  wear  a  w^et  buckskin  glove? 
Them  moccasins  wasn't  no  putection 
ag'inst  the  wet.  Birch  bark,  with  hickory 
bark  soles,  stropped  on  over  yarn  socks, 
beat  buckskin  all  holler,  fur  snow.  Me  'n' 
Abe  got  purty  handy  contrivin'  things 
thataw^ay.  An'  Abe  was  right  out  in  the 
woods,  about  as  soon's  he  w^as  weaned, 
fishin'  in  the  crick,  settin'  traps  fur  rab- 
bits an'  muskrats,  goin'  on  coon-hunts 
with  Tom  an'  me  an'  the  dogs;  foUerin^ 
up  bees  to  find  bee-trees,  an'  drappin' 
corn  fur  his  pappy.  Mighty  inter^^dn' 
life  fur  a  boy,  but  thar  was  a  good  many 
chances  he  wouldn't  live  to  grow  up. 

''  Tom  got  holt  o'  a  better  farm  after 

13 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

awhile,  but  he  couldn't  git  a  clear  title 
to  it,  so  when  Abe  was  eight  years  old, 
an'  I  was  eighteen,  we  all  lit  out  fui^  In- 
diany.  Kaintucky  w^as  gittin'  stuck  up, 
with  some  folks  rich  enough  to  own  nig- 
gers, so  it  didn't  seem  no  place  fur  pore 
folks  an^TQore.  ]My  folks  was  dead,  an' 
I  went  with  some  relations — the  Spar- 
rows. Yes;  same  Sparrows  'at  raised 
Nancy.  Nancy  emptied  the  shucks  out  o' 
the  tow-linen  ticks,  an'  I  piled  ever}i:hing 
they  had  ^^Tith  takin'  on  the  backs  o'  two 
pack  bosses.  Tom  could  make  new  pole 
beds  an'  puncheon  tables  an'  stools,  eas- 
ier'n  he  could  carry  'em.  Abe  toted  a  gun, 
an'  kep'  it  so  dry  on  the  raft,  crossin'  the 
Ohio,  that  he  shot  a  tui^key  hen  with  it 
the  fust  day  we  got  to  Indiany.  He 
couldn't  stop  talkin'  about  it  till  Tom 
hollered  to  him  to  quit. 

"  Tom  brung  his  tools,  an'  four  hun- 

14 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

derd  gallons  o'  whisky  to  trade  fur  land 

with    Mr.    Gentry.    It    was    in    Spencer 

County,  back  a  piece  from  the  Ohio  river. 

We  had  to  chop  down  trees  to  make  a 

road  to  the  place,  but  it  was  good  land, 

in  the  timber  whar  the  women  could  pick 

up  their  firewood,  an'  on  a  crick  with  a 

deer-lick   handy,    an'    a    spring   o'    good 

water.  We  all  lived  in  pole-sheds  fur  a 

year. — Don't  know  what  pole-sheds  is? — ■ 

Well,  they're  jist  shacks  o'  poles,  roofed 

over,  but  left  open  on  one  side;  no  floor, 

no  fireplace,  not  much  better'n  a  tree.  I've 

seen  Injun  lodges  that'd  beat  pole-sheds 

all  holler   fur  keepin'   out  the   weather. 

I  don't  see  how  the  women  folks  lived 

through  it.  Boys  are  half  wild  anyhow, 

an'  me  'n'  Abe  had  a  bully  good  time. 

Thar  was  lots  o'  game  an'  fish,  an'  plenty 

o'  work. 

"  'Bout  the  time  we  got  our  cabins  up 

15 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

the  Sparrows  both  died  o'  milk-sickness 
an'  I  went  to  Tom's  to  live.  Then  Xancy 
died  o'  the  same  disease.  The  cow  et  pizen 
w^eeds,  I  reckon.  O  Lord,  O  Lord,  I'll 
never  furgit  the  mizry  in  that  little 
green-log  cabin  in  the  w^oods  when  Nancy 
died! 

"Me  'n'  Abe  helped  Tom  make  the 
coffin.  He  tuk  a  log  left  over  from  buildin' 
the  cabin,  an'  I  helped  him  whipsaw  it 
into  planks  an'  plane  'em.  Me  'n'  Abe 
held  the  planks  while  Tom  bored  holes 
an'  put  'em  together,  with  pegs  Abe'd 
whittled.  Thar  w^asn't  sca'cely  any  nails  in 
the  kentry  an'  httle  iron,  except  in  knives 
and  guns  an'  cookin'  pots.  Tom's  tools 
was  a  wonder  to  the  hull  deestrict.  'Pears 
to  me  like  Tom  was  always  makin'  a  cof- 
fin fur  some  one.  We  laid  Nancy  close  to 
the  deer-run  in  the  woods.  Deer  was  the 

only  wild  critters  the  women  wasn't  af  eerd 

16 


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THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LIxNCOLN 

of.  Abe  was  some'er's  'round  nine  years 
old,  but  he  never  got  over  the  mizable  way 
his  mother  died.  I  reckon  she  didn't  have 
no  sort  o'  keer — pore  Xancy!  " 

The  old  man  fell  asleep  again,  exhaust- 
ed by  his  own  emotions.  An  ancient  clock 
with  a  quaint  face,  ticked  loud  on  an  old- 
fashioned  dresser,  while  Deimis  slept,  a 
long*  half -hour. 

"  Xancy,"  was  murmured,  to  start  him 
off  again,  when  he  woke  up. 

"  I  reckon  it  was  thinkin'  o'  Xancy  an' 
things  she'd  done  said  to  him  that  started 
Abe  to  studjdn'  that  next  winter.  He 
could  read  an'  write.  ]Me'n'  Xancy'd  I'arnt 
him  that  much,  an'  he'd  gone  to  school  a 
spell;  but  it  was  nine  miles  thar  an'  back, 
an'  a  pore  make-out  fur  a  school,  anyhow. 
Tom  said  it  was  a  waste  o'  time,  an'  I 
reckon  he  was  right.  But  Xancy  kep'  urg- 
in'  Abe  to  study.  '  Abe,'  she'd  say,  *  you 

17 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

Tarn  all  you  kin,  an'  be  some  account/ 
an'  she'd  tell  him  stories  about  George 
Washington,  an'  say  that  Abe  had  jist  as 
good  Virginny  blood  in  him  as  Washing- 
ton. JNIebbe  she  stretched  things  some,  but 
it  done  Abe  good. 

"  Well,  me  'n'  Abe  spelled  through 
Webster's  spellin'  book  twict  before  he 
got  tired.  Then  he  tuk  to  writin'  on  the 
pimcheon  floor,  the  fence  rails  and  the 
wooden  fire-shovel,  with  a  bit  o'  charcoal. 
We  got  some  wrappin'  paper  over  to  Gen- 
tryville,  an'  I  made  ink  out  o'  blackberry 
brier-root  an'  copperas.  Kind  o'  ornery 
ink  that  was.  It  et  the  paper  into  holes. 
Got  so  I  could  cut  good  pens  out  o'  tur- 
key-buzzard quills.  It  pestered  Tom  a 
heap  to  have  Abe  writin'  all  over  every- 
thing thataway,  but  Abe  was  jist  wropped 
up  in  it. 

" '  Denny/  he  sez  to  me  many  a  time, 

18 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

*  look  at  that,  will  you?  Abraham  Lin- 
coln! That  stands  fur  me.  Don't  look  a 
blamed  bit  like  me!'  An'  he'd  stand  an' 
study  it  a  spell.  'Peared  to  mean  a  heap 
to  Abe.  When  Tom  got  mad  at  his  mark- 
in'  the  house  up,  Abe  tuk  to  markin'  trees 
'at  Tom  wanted  to  cut  down,  with  his 
name,  an'  writin'  it  in  the  sand  at  the 
deer-lick.  He  tried  to  inieYest  little  Sairy 
in  I'arnin'  to  read,  but  she  never  tuk  to 
it.  She  was  the  only  woman  in  the  cabin 
that  year,  an'  no  neighbors  fur  miles. 
Sairy  was  a  little  gal,  only  'leven,  an' 
she'd  git  so  lonesome,  missin'  her  mother, 
she'd  set  by  the  fire  an'  cry.  JNIe  'n'  Abe 
got  'er  a  baby  coon  an'  a  turtle,  and  tried 
to  git  a  fawn  but  we  couldn't  ketch  any. 
Tom,  he  moped  'round.  Wasn't  wuth 
shucks  that  winter.  He  put  the  corn  in 
in  the  spring  an'  left  us  to  'tend  to  it,  an' 

lit  out  fur  Kaintucky.  Yes,  we  knowed 

19 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

what  he  went  fur,  but  we  didn't  think  he'd 
have  any  luck,  bein'  as  pore  as  he  was, 
and  with  two  childern  to  raise. 

"  I  reckon  Abe'd  a  got  discouraged 
about  I'arnin'  after  awhile  if  it  hadn't 
ben  fur  his  stepmother.  We  was  all  nigh 
about  tickled  to  death  when  Tom  hiding 
a  new  wife  home.  She'd  ben  Sairy  Bush, 
an'  Tom'd  ben  in  love  with  'er  before  he 
met  up  with  Xancy,  but  her  follis  would- 
n't let  Tom  have  'er,  because  he  was  shif '- 
less.  So  she  married  a  man  named  John- 
ston an'  he  died.  Then  her  'n'  Tom  got 
married.  She  had  three  childern  of  'er 
own,  an'  a  four-hoss  wagon-load  o'  goods 
— feather  j)illers  an'  homespun  blankets, 
an'  patchwork  quilts  an'  chists  o'  drawers, 
an'  a  flax-wheel  an'  a  soap  kittle,  an'  cook- 
in'  pots  an'  pe^vter  dishes — lot  o'  truck 
like  that  'at  made  a  heap  o'  diffrunce  in  a 

backwoods  cabin. 

20 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

"  Yes,   Aunt   Sairy   was   a   woman   o' 

propputy,   an'   could   'a'   done   better,   I 

reckon,  but  Tom  liad  a  kind  o'  way  with 

the  women,  an'  maybe  it  was  somethin' 

she  tuk  comfort  in  to  have  a  man  that 

didn't  drink  an'  cuss  none.  She  made  a 

heap  more  o'  Tom,  too,  than  pore  Xancy 

did.  Before  winter  he'd  put  in  a  new  floor, 

he'd  whipsawed  an'  planed  off  so  she  could 

scour  it ;  made  some  good  beds  an'  cheers, 

an'  tinkered  at  the  roof  so  it  couldn't  snow 

in  on  us  boys  'at  slep'  in  the  loft.  Purty 

soon  we  had  the  best  house  in  the  kentry. 

Thar  was  eight  of  us  then  to  do  fur,  but 

Aunt  Sairy  had  faculty  an'  didn't  'pear 

to    be   hurried    or   worried   none.    Little 

Sairy  jist  chirked  right  up  with  a  mother 

an'  two  sisters  fur  comp'ny.  Abe  used  to 

say  he  was  glad   Sairy  had  some  good 

tim^es.  She  married  purty  young  an'  died 

with  her  fust  babv.  I  reckon  it  was  like 

21 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

Nancy,  she  didn't  have  no  sort  o' 
keer." 

After  a  moment  of  reverie,  old  Dennis 
began  to  chuckle  to  himself.  Tragedy  and 
comedy  intermingled  in  his  memory  as 
only  Shakespeare  and  real  life  can  bring 
them  together,  without  incongruity  or 
without  losing  a  laugh  or  a  tear. 

"  Aunt  Sairy  sartinly  did  have  faculty. 
I  reckon  we  was  all  purty  ragged  and 
dirty  when  she  got  thar.  The  fust  thing 
she  did  was  to  tell  me  to  tote  one  o'  Tom's 
cyarpenter  benches  to  a  place  outside  the 
door,  near  the  hoss-trough.  Then  she  had 
me  'n'  Abe  'n'  John  Johnston,  her  boy, 
fill  the  trough  with  spring  water.  She  put 
out  a  big  gourd  full  o'  soft  soap,  an'  an- 
other one  to  dip  water  wdth,  an'  told  us 
boys  to  wash  up  fur  dinner.  You  jist  nat- 
urally had  to  be  somebody  when  Aunt 

Sairy  was  around.  She  had  Tom  build  'er 

22 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

a  loom,  an'  when  she  heerd  o'  some  lime 
burners  bein'  'romid  Gentryville,  Tom  had 
to  mosey  over  an'  git  some  lime,  an'  white- 
wash the  cabin.  An'  he  made  'er  an  ash- 
hopper  fur  lye,  an'  a  chicken-house  noth- 
in'  could  git  into.  Then — te-he-he-he!  she 
set  some  kind  of  a  dead-fall  trap  fur  him 
an'  got  him  to  jine  the  Baptist  Church! 
Crack}^  but  Aunt  Sairy  was  some  pun- 
kins! 

"  An'  it  wasn't  only  in  things  to  make 
us  comf 'able  an'  well  thought  of.  She  did- 
n't have  no  eddication  herself,  but  she 
knowed  what  I'arnin'  could  do  fur  folks. 
She  wasn't  thar  very  long  before  she 
found  out  how  Abe  hankered  after  books. 
She  heerd  him  talkin'  to  me,  I  reckon. 
'  Denny,'  he'd  say,  '  the  things  I  want  to 
know  is  in  books.  My  best  friend's  the 
man  who'll  git  me  one.'  Well,  books  was- 
n't as  plenty  as  wild-cats,  but  I  got  him 

23 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

one  by  cuttin'  a  few  cords  o'  wood. 
It  had  a  lot  o'  yarns  in  it.  One  I  ricol- 
lect  was  about  a  feller  that  got  near 
some  darned  fool  rocks  'at  drawed  all 
the  nails  out  o'  his  boat  an'  he  got  a  duck- 
in'.  Wasn't  a  blamed  bit  o'  sense  in  that 
yarn." 

"  Sindbad  The  Sailor,  in  The  Arabian 
Nights?" 

"  Hey?  Well,  I  reckon.  I  ain't  no  schol- 
ar. Abe'd  lay  on  his  stummick  by  the  fire, 
an'  read  out  loud  to  me  'n'  Aunt  Sairy,  an' 
we'd  laugh  when  he  did,  though  I  reckon 
it  went  in  at  one  ear  an'  out  at  the  other 
w^th  her,  as  it  did  wdth  me.  Tom'd  come 
in  an'  say:  '  See  here,  Abe,  your  mammy 
kain't  work  with  vou  a  botherin'  her  like 
that; '  but  Aunt  Sairy  always  said  it  did- 
n't bother  her  none,  an'  she'd  tell  Abe  to 
go  on.     I  reckon  that  encouraged  Abe  a 

heap. 

24 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

" '  Abe,'  sez  I,  many  a  time,  '  them 
yarns  is  all  lies.' 

"  '  INIighty  darned  good  lies,'  he'd  say, 
an'  go  on  readin'  an'  chucklin'  to  hisself, 
till  Tom'd  kiver  up  the  fire  fur  the  night 
an'  shoo  him  off  to  bed. 

"  I  reckon  Abe  read  that  book  a  dozen 
times,  an'  knowed  them  yarns  by  heart. 
He  didn't  have  nothin'  much  else  to  read 
except  Amit  Sairy's  Bible.  He  cut  four 
cords  o'  wood  onct,  to  git  one  stingy  little 
slice  of  a  book.  It  was  a  life  of  Washing- 
ton; an'  he'd  lay  over  the  Statoots  o'  In- 
diany  half  the  night.  I  couldn't  make 
head  nor  tail  o'  that  punk.  We'd  git  holt 
of  a  newspaper  onct  in  a  while,  an'  Abe'd 
I'arn  Henry  Clay's  speeches  by  heart.  He 
liked  the  stories  in  the  Bible,  too,  an'  he 
got  a  little  book  o'  fables  some'ers.  I  reck- 
on it  was  them  stories  he  read  that  give 
him  so  many  yarns  to  tell.  I  asked  him 


25 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

onct  after  he'd  gone  to  la  win'  and  could 
make  a  jury  laugh  or  cry  by  firin'  a  yarn 
at  'em: 

"  '  Abe/  sez  I,  '  whar  did  you  git  so 
blamed  many  lies? '  An'  he'd  always  say, 
*  Denny,  when  a  story  I'arns  you  a  good 
lesson,  it  ain't  no  lie.  God  tells  truths  in 
parables.  They're  easier  fur  common  folks 
to  understand  an'  ricoUect.'  His  stories 
was  like  that.  If  a  man'd  ben  doin'  any- 
thing low-down,  Abe'd  make  him  feel 
meaner'n  a  suck-egg  dog  about  it. 

"  Seems  to  me  now  I  never  seen  Abe 
after  he  was  twelve  'at  he  didn't  have  a 
book  some'ers  'round.  He'd  put  a  book 
inside  his  shirt  an'  fill  his  pants  pockets 
with  corn  dodgers,  an'  go  off  to  plow  or 
hoe.  When  noon  come  he'd  set  down  un- 
der a  tree,  an'  read  an'  eat.  An'  when  he 
come  to  the  house  at  night,  he'd  tilt  a  cheer 

back  by  the  chimbly,  put  his  feet  on  the 

26 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

rung,  an'  set  on  his  backbone  and  read. 
Aunt  Sairy  always  put  a  candle  on  the 
mantel-piece  fur  him,  if  she  had  one.  An' 
as  like  as  not  Abe'd  eat  his  supper  thar, 
takin'  anything  she'd  give  him  that  he 
could  gnaw  at  an'  read  at  the  same  time. 
I've  seen  manj^  a  feller  come  in  an'  look 
at  him,  Abe  not  knowin'  anybody  was 
'round,  an'  sneak  out  ag'in  like  a  cat,  an' 
say:  *  Well,  I'll  be  darned! '  It  didn't  seem 
natural,  nohow,  to  see  a  feller  read  like 
that.  Aunt  Sairy'd  never  let  the  chil- 
dern  pester  him.  She  always  said  Abe 
was  goin'  to  be  a  great  man  some  day. 
An'  she  wasn't  goin'  to  have  him  hen- 
dered." 

Another  long,  dozing  nap  intervened. 
The  sun  was  declining  in  the  west,  and 
life's  sands  were  nmning  out  for  Dennis 
Hanks.  He  lived  only  in  that  faraway 
past  with  the  hero  of  his  youth,  memory 

27 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

flaring  up  and  dying  away  as  the  forces 
of  life  ebbed  and  flowed.  Every  time  he 
slept  he  had  to  be  reminded  of  the  eager 
listener,  and  to  have  some  spring  touched 
to  set  his  mind  going  again.  Sometimes 
he  would  awaken  only  to  sit  and  gaze 
absently  out  of  the  window,  or  to  laugh 
to  himself.  If  spoken  to  he  would  start 
and  stare  with  his  one  dim  eye  a  moment, 
before  he  could  make  the  long  leap  to  the 
present. 

"  Hey?  Is  that  the  only  way  Abe  Tarnt 
things — out  o'  books?  You  bet  he  was  too 
smart  to  think  everything  was  in  books. 
Sometimes  a  preacher,  'r  a  circuit-ridin' 
jedge  'r  lyyer,  'r  a  stump-speakin'  poly- 
tician,  'r  a  school  teacher'd  come  along. 
When  one  o'  them  rode  up,  Tom'd  go  out 
an'  say:  '  Light,  stranger,'  like  it  was  po- 
lite to  do.  Then  Abe'd  come  lopin'  out  on 
his  long  legs,  throw  one  over  the  top  rail 

28 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

and  begin  firin'  questions.  Tom'd  tell  him 

to  quit,  but  it  didn't  do  no  good,  so  Tom'd 

have  to  bang  him  on  the  side  o'  his  head 

with  his  hat.  Abe'd  go  off  a  spell  an'  fire 

sticks  at  the  snow-birds,  an'  whistle  like  he 

didn't  keer.  '  Pap  thinks  it  ain't  polite  to 

ask  folks  so  many  questions,'  he'd  say.  '  I 

reckon  I  wasn't  bom  to  be  pohte,  Denny. 

Thar's  so  darned  many  things  I  want  to 

know.  An'  how  else  am  I  goin'  to  git  to 

know  'em  ? ' 

"  When    Abe    was    about    seventeen, 

somethin'  happened  that  druv  him  nigh 

crazy.  Thar  was  a  feller  come  over  from 

England — Britisher,  I  reckon — an'  spoke 

in   Congress   about  a  settlemint  he  was 

ffoin'  to  lav  out  on  the  Wabash,  buvin' 

out  some  loon}"  Dutch  religious  fellers  that 

had  mills  an'  schools  thar.  Xow,  mebbe 

vou  think  'at  us  folks  livin'  in  the  back- 

woods  didn't  know  what  was  goin'  on  in 

29 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

the  world.  Well,  you'd  be  mighty  mis- 
taken about  that.  We  kep'  track  o'  Con- 
gress fur  one  thing.  Thar  wasn't  much  to 
talk  about  but  polytics,  an'  we  thrashed 
over  everything  in  arg\Tnints  at  the  cross- 
roads stores.  The  big-bugs  down  East 
wasn't  iTmnin'  every  thin'.  Polytics  had 
sort  o'  follered  us  over  the  Gap  trail  an' 
roosted  in  the  clearin's.  Thar  was  Henry 
Clay  in  Kaintucky  an'  Old  Hick'ry  in 
Tennessee,  at  it  tooth  an'  nail,  an'  we  all 
tuk  sides. 

"So  when  this  furrin  feller  spoke  in 
Congress  about  that  gyarden  o'  Eden  he 
was  goin'  to  fence  in  on  the  Wabash,  we 
soon  heerd  about  it.  Boats  brung  news 
ever}^  week.  An'  one  day  arly  in  the  win- 
ter, a  big  keel-boat  come  down  from  Pitts- 
burg over  the  Ohio.  They  called  it  '  the 
boatload  o'  knowledge,'  it  had  sich  a  passel 

o'  books  an'  machines  an'  men  o'  I'arnin' 

30 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

on  it.  Then  little  rowboats  an'  rafts  crossed 
over  from  Kaintucky,  an'  ox  teams  an' 
pack-hosses  went  through  Gentryville  and 
struck  across  kentry  to — to — plague  on  it ! 
Abe'd  tell  you  in  a  minute " 

"  New  Harmony,  Robert  Owen's  col- 
ony? " 

"  That's  it !  Thar  wasn't  sca'cely  any- 
thing else  talked  about  fur  a  spell.  I 
reckon  some  folks  thought  it  was  New 
Jerusalem,  an'  nobody'd  have  to  work. 
Anyway,  thar  was  a  lot  o'  wuthless  cusses 
lit  out  fur  that  settlemint.  Abe'd  a  broke 
his  back  to  go,  an'  it  nigh  about  broke  his 
heart  when  he  couldn't. 

"  Denm%  thar's  a  school  an'  thousands 
o'  books  thar,  an'  fellers  that  know  every- 
thing in  creation,'  he'd  say,  his  ej^es  as 
big  'n'  hungry  as  a  hoot-owl's.  The 
schoolin'  cost  only  about  a  hunderd  dol- 
lars a  year,  an'  he  could  'a'  worked  out 

31 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

his  board,  but  Abe  might  jist  as  well  'a' 
wished  fur  a  hunderd  moons  to  shine  at 
night.  I  was  married  to  one  o'  the  John- 
stone gals  by  then  an'  had  hard  grub- 
bin'  to  keep  my  fambly,  or  I'd  'a'  helped 
him.  Tom  didn't  set  no  store  by  them 
things.  An'  thar  it  was,  only  about  sixty 
miles  west  of  us,  an'  Abe  couldn't  go! 
The  place  petered  out  after  awhile,  as  it 
w^as  sartin  to  do,  mth  all  them  ornery  fel- 
lers in  it,  hvin'  off  the  workers.  But  I 
reckon  it  lasted  long  enough  fur  Abe  to 
'a'  I'arned  what  he  wanted  to  know.  Well, 
I  reckon  Abe  put  it  out  o'  his  mind, 
after  awhile.  If  he  couldn't  git  a  thing 
he  wanted  he  knowed  how  to  do  with- 
out it,  an'  mebbe  he  looked  at  it  dif- 
frunt  afterwards.  But  things'd  ben  eas- 
ier fur  him  if  he  could  'a'  gone  to  that 
school." 

The  tragedy  of  it  was  too  big  to  real- 

82 


.fy 


fsat*i 


^ . 


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o 


So 


^ 


^ 


<5 


S 
^Si 


~      =? 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

ize !  Was  fate  never  to  tire  of  piling  pangs 
on  that  great  heart?  Robert  Owen,  Will- 
iam ]McCiure,  Robert  Dale  Owen,  Audu- 
bon for  a  time,  and  others  as  celebrated; 
pioneers  of  liberal  thought;  founders  of 
the  Indiana  school  system  and  township 
libraries;  forerunners  of  modern  educa- 
tion, social  ideals  and  science;  so  near  as 
to  touch  his  experience,  to  excite  his  hopes, 
but  just  outside  his  opportunity;  mock- 
ing at  him  with  this  sardonic  turn  of 
the  wheel!  The  wilderness  life  suddenly 
took  on  new  terrors;  the  youth  who  over- 
came such  baffling,  deadening  mischances, 
loomed  up  to  colossal  proportions.  The 
clock  ticked  on;  clinkers  dropped  into  the 
grate.  A  sleek  house-cat  came  in  on  vel- 
vet paws  and  curled  himself  up  on  the 
braided  hearth-rug,  in  such  luxurious 
content    as    Lincoln    never    knew.    Old 

Dennis    awoke,    with   prodigious   yawns, 

33 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

and  took  up   the  dropped   stitch  of  his 
narrative.* 

"  When  Abe  growed  up  he  was  a  tur- 

*  Robert  Owen,  the  wealthy  English  philanthropist  and 
reformer,  arrived  on  the  lower  Wabash  in  January-,  1S26,  with 
distinguished  disciples,  to  begin  his  social  and  educational 
experiment  at  New  Harmony.  The  most  dramatic  and  unique 
episode  of  pioneer  life  in  the  Middle  West,  it  permanently 
affected  and  gave  direction  to  intellectual  development, 
although  the  experiment  itself  did  not  long  sur^nve.  Dennis 
Hanks's  account  of  it  is  as  remarkable  for  its  shrewdness  of 
analysis  as  for  its  accuracy.  The  earlier  biographers  entirely 
overlooked  the  incident  as,  in  all  probability,  having  deep 
and  lasting  influence  on  Lincoln's  character  and  career.  Not 
finding  anything  confirmatory  of  Dennis  Hanks's  statement, 
on  this  phase  of  Lincoln's  youth,  appeal  was  made  to  Miss 
Ida  M.  Tarbell,  who  recovered  so  many  facts  that  illuminate 
his  early  life.  She  permits  me  to  quote  her  here:  "When  I  was 
writing  my  '  Early  Life  of  Lincoln  '  I  looked  up  this  very  point, 
feeling  sure  that  he  must  have  heard  more  or  less  of  the  colony 
and  been  interested  in  it,  but  if  I  found  anything  at  all  it  was 
unimportant.  It  is  not  possible  that  he  did  not  take  an  interest 
in  it,  for  the  people  of  Indiana  were  very  much  stirred  up  over 
Owen's  teachings,  and  there  was  much  discussion  in  the  news- 
papers of  that  day,  and  later  in  the  meeting  of  the  Indiana 
state  legislature."  We  are  indebted,  therefore,  to  Dennis  Hanks 
for  this  distinct  contribution  to  Lincolniana.  It  is  probable 
that,  in  middle  life,  w^hen  the  earlier  biographers  talked  with 
him,  he  had  forgotten  it.  In  his  second  childhood  memory 
of  his  youthful  days  was  fully  recovered.  And  he  died  before 
Miss  Tarbell  began  her  exhaustive  researches. 

84 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LlxNCOLN 

rible  cut-up  an'  joker.  Aunt  Sairy  was 
a  good  Baptist  an'  Tom  an'  the  Johnston 
childern  had  jined,  so  the  Baptist  preach- 
ers always  stopped  at  the  house.  Onct 
Abe  tried  to  git  a  preacher  to  'count  fur 
them  miracles  about  Jonah  an'  the  whale 
an'  the  others,  an'  got  him  so  worked  up 
that  when  Abe  asked  him  w^ho  was  the 
father  of  Zebedee's  childern,  blamed  if  he 
could  tell. 

"  When  Abe  was  nineteen  he  was  as 
tall  as  he  was  ever  goin'  to  be,  I  reckon. 
He  was  the  ganglin'est,  awkwardest  fel- 
ler that  ever  stepped  over  a  ten-rail,  snake- 
fence.  He  had  to  duck  to  git  through  a 
door'  an'  'peared  to  be  all  j'ints.  Tom  used 
to  say  Abe  looked  as  if  he'd  ben  chopped 
out  with  an  ax  an'  needed  a  jack-plane 
tuk  to  him.  Aunt  Sairy  often  told  Abe 
'at  his  feet  bein'  clean  didn't  matter  so 

much,  because  she  could  scour  the  floor, 

So 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

but  he'd  better  wash  his  head,  or  he'd  be 
a  rubbin'  dirt  off  on  her  nice  whitewashed 
rafters. 

"  That  put  an  idy  in  his  head,  I  reckon. 
Several  of  us  older  ones  was  married  then, 
an'  thar  was  always  a  passel  o'  youngsters 
'round  the  place.  One  day  Abe  put  'em  up 
to  wadin'  in  the  mud-puddle  by  the  boss- 
trough.  Then  he  tuk'em  one  by  one,  turned 
'em  upside  do^Mi,  an'  walked  'em  acrost 
the  ceilin',  them  ascreamin'  fit  to  kill. 

"  Aunt  Sairy  come  in,  an'  it  was  so 
blamed  funny  she  set  down  an'  laughed, 
though  she  said  Abe'd  oughter  to  be 
spanked.  I  don't  know  how  far  he  had 
to  go  fur  more  lime,  but  he  whitewashed 
the  ceilin'  all  over  agin.  Aunt  Sair\^'s  said 
many  a  time  'at  Abe'd  never  made  her 
a  mite  o'  trouble,  'r  spoke  a  cross  word 
to  'er  sence  she  come  into  the  house.  He 
was  the  best  boy  she  ever  seen. 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

"  He  always  liked  to  take  a  bag  o'  corn 
an'  ride  off  to  a  hoss-mill  about  eighteen 
mile  away  to  git  some  meal  ground.  The 
mill  was  worked  by  a  plug  an'  sweep, 
pulled  by  a  bag-o'-bones  boss.  Abe  used 
to  say  his  hound  could  eat  meal  faster'n 
that  mill  could  grind  it  an'  then  go  hun- 
gry fur  supper.  But  it  was  a  good  place 
fur  visitin'  an'  swappin'  yarns.  Other 
men'd  be  comin'  in  an'  have  to  wait  all 
day,  mebbe,  an'  they'd  set  on  a  rail  fence 
an'  listen  to  Abe  crackin'  jokes  or  argyin' 
poly  tics.  Abe'd  come  home  with  enough 
news  an'  yarns  to  last  a  week.  I  didn't 
want  no  other  comp'ny  when  Abe  was 
thar. 

"  Abe  had  a  powerful  good  mem'ry. 

He'd  go  to  church  an'  come  home  an'  say 

over  the  sermon  as  good  as  the  preacher. 

He'd  often  do  it  fur  Aunt  Sairy,  when 

she  couldn't  go,  an'  she  said  it  was  jist 

37 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

as  good  as  goin'  herself.  He'd  say  over 
everything  from  beloved  brethern  to  Anien 
without  crackin'  a  smile,  pass  a  pewter 
plate  fur  a  collection  an'  then  we'd  all 
jine  him  in  singin'  the  Doxology.  Aunt 
Sairy  thought  a  heap  o'  Abe,  an'  he  did 
o'  her,  an'  I  reckon  they'd  a  done  most 
anything  fur  one  another. 

"  She  seemed  to  know  Abe  had  more 
pride'n  the  rest  of  us.  He  always  had  a 
extry  pair  o'  butternut -dyed  jeans  pants, 
an'  a  white  shirt.  When  he  was  only  thir- 
teen Aunt  Sair}^  said  to  him:  'Abe,  you 
git  holt  o'  some  muslin  some'ers  an'  have 
some  white  shirts,  so  you  kin  go  to  folks' 
houses  right.'  So  he  cut  nine  cords  o' 
wood  an'  got  nine  yards  o'  unbleached 
muslin,  an'  she  bleached  it  an'  shrunk  it 
an'  made  him  two  shirts.  He  put  one  o' 
them    on    every    Sunday.    Mebbe    Abe 

wouldn't  'a'  ben  the  man  he  was  if  it 

38 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

hadn't  ben  fur  his  mother  an'  stepmother 
encouragin'  him. 

"  It  was  fur  to  git  money  to  buy  books, 
that  Abe  tuk  them  v'yages  on  the  flat- 
boats.  He  was  all  fur  bein'  a  river  man 
fur  a  while.  Tom  owned  Abe's  time  till 
he  was  twenty-one  an'  didn't  want  him 
to  go.  He  was  too  vallyble  fur  chores. 
When  Abe  was  on  the  farm  Tom  had 
more  time  to  hunt  an'  fish,  an'  he'd  al- 
ways rather  do  that  than  grub  roots  'r 
hoe  corn.  Yes,  Tom  was  kind  o'  shif'less. 
Well,  him  an'  Abe  struck  up  some  kind 
o'  dicker,  an'  Abe  went  off  down  the 
river,  fur  fifty  cents  a  day,  an'  a  bonus. 
It  was  big  w^ages,  but  he  never  went  but 
twict. 

"  Abe  didn't  take  to  tradin'  nohow.  He 

was  too  honest  to  make  a  livin'  at  it,  an' 

folks    tuk    advantage    of    him.    He   was 

pop^dar,   an'   when  he   clerked  the  store 

39 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

had  plenty   o'   fellers   comin'   to   it  who 
liked  to  hear  him  talk,  but  most  o'  them 
thought  he  was  plumb  foolish  when  he 
got  to  tradin',  so  he  quit  that.  Aunt  Sairy 
always  said  he'd  oughter  go  into  polytics, 
because  when  he  got  to  argyin'  the  other 
feller'd  purty  soon  say  he  had  enough. 
Abe  w^as  a  leader,  too.  He  could  break 
up  rowdy  crowds  by  tellin'  a  story  that'd 
make  'em  ashamed  or  make  'em  laugh. 
He  wouldn't  take  no  sass,  neither.  If  a 
feller  was  spilin'  fur  a  fight,  an'  nothin' 
else'd  do  him,  Abe'd  accomydate  him  all 
right.  Ginerally  Abe  could  lay  him  out 
so  he  wouldn't  know  nothin'  about  it  fur 
a  spell.  In  rasshn',  an'  runnin',  an'  hoss- 
back  ridin',  an'  log-rollin',  an'  rail-split- 
tin'  he  could  beat  everybody.  You'd  'a' 
thought  there  was  two  men  in  the  woods 
when  he  got  inter  it  with  an  ax.  When 
he  was  fifteen  he  could  bring  me  do^vn 

40 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

by  throwin'  his  leg  over  my  shoulder.  I 

always  was  a  little  nint  of  a  feller. 

"Well!  Lemme  see.  Yes;  I  reckon  it 

was  John  Hanks  'at  got  restless  fust  an' 

lit  out  fur  Illinois,  an'  wrote  fur  us  all 

to  come,  an'  he'd  git  land  fur  us.  Tom 

was  ahvays  ready  to  move.  He  never  had 

his  land  in  Indiany  all  paid  fur,  nohow. 

So  he  sold  off  his  corn  an'  hogs  an'  piled 

everything  into  ox-wagons  an'  we  all  went 

— Linkhorns  an'  Hankses  an'  Johnstons, 

all  hangin'  together.  I  reckon  we  was  like 

one  o'  them  tribes  o'  Israel  that  vou  kain't 

break  up,  nohow.  An'  Tom  was  always 

lookin'  fur  the  land  o'  Canaan.  Thar  was 

five  fambhes  of  us,  then,  an'  Abe.  It  tuk 

us  two  weeks  to  git  thar,  raftin'  over  the 

Wabash,    cuttin'    our   way   through   the 

woods,  fordin'  rivers,  pryin'  wagons  an' 

steers  out  o'  sloughs  with  fence  rails,  an' 

makin'  camp.  Abe  cracked  a  joke  every 

41 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

time  he  cracked  a  whip,  an'  he  found  a 
way  out  o'  every  tight  place  while  the 
rest  of  us  was  standin'  'round  scratchin' 
our  fool  heads.  I  reckon  Abe  an'  Aunt 
Sairy  run  that  movin',  an'  good  thing 
they  did,  or  it'd  'a'  ben  run  into  a  swamp 
an'  sucked  under. 

"  It  was  a  purty  kentry  up  on  the 
Sangamon,  an'  we  was  all  tuk  up  with 
the  idy  that  they  could  run  steamboats 
up  to  our  cornfields  an'  load;  but  we 
had  fever'n  ager  turrible,  so,  in  a  year 
or  two,  we  moved  back  here  to  Coles 
County,  an'  we've  ben  here  ever  sence. 
Abe  helped  put  up  a  cabin  fur  Tom  on 
the  Sangamon,  clear  fifteen  acres  fur 
corn,  an'  split  walnut  rails  to  fence  it  in. 
Abe  was  some'ers  'round  twenty-one.  I 
reckon  it  must  'a'  ben  them  same  rails 
'at  John  Hanks  tuk " 

A  bewildered  look  came  into  the  old 

42 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

face  that,  an  instant  before,  had  been  as 
full  of  his  story  as  an  eager  child's.  Here 
was  a  shut  door  that  memoiy  could  not 
pass.  But  he  tugged  at  the  stubborn  lock : 

"  I  reckon  it  must  'a'  ben  them  same 
rails  'at  John  Hanks " 

"  Took  into  the  Convention  at  Chi- 
cago? " 

His  dim  eye  stared  into  a  blurred  past, 
unseeing.  Then  he  said,  whimperingly,  as 
if  here  was  something  to  which  he  had 
never  been  reconciled: 

"  It  must  'a'  ben  about  that  time  'at  Abe 
left  home  fur  good." 

The  curtain  of  night  had  dropped  down 
before  the  sun,  too.  It  was  dark  outside. 
Mrs.  Dowling  brought  in  an  oil  lamp 
and  set  it  down  exactly  in  the  middle 
of  a  crocheted  mat  on  a  little  table.  She 
glanced  at  her  father,  sleeping  placidly 
in  his  chair,  and  pulled  down  the  shade 

43 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

to  shut  out  the  chill  of  the  winter  even- 
ing. Then  she  unburdened  her  mind. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  go  away  think- 
ing so  bad  of  Grandfather  Lincohi.  That's 
what  us  younger  ones  called  Uncle  Abe's 
father;  and  we  called  him  Uncle  Abe, 
thoucrh  he  was  only  father's  second  cousin. 
I  reckon  kinfolks  counted  for  more  in 
early  days.  I'm  just  tired  of  hearing 
Grandfather  Lincoln  abused.  Everybody 
nms  him  do\^Ti.  Father  never  gave  him 
credit  for  what  he  was.  He  made  a  good 
living,  and  I  reckon  he  would  have  got 
something  ahead  if  he  hadn't  been  so  gen- 
erous. He  had  the  old  Virginia  notion  of 
hospitality — liked  to  see  people  sit  up  to 
the  table  and  eat  heartv,  and  there  were 
always  plenty  of  his  relations  and  grand- 
mother's willing  to  live  on  liim.  Uncle 
Abe  got  his  honesty,  and  his  clean  notions 
of  living   and  his  kind   heart   from  his 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

father.  ]Mavbe  the  Hanks  family  was 
smarter,  but  some  of  them  couldn't  hold 
a  candle  to  Grandfather  Lincoln,  when  it 
came  to  morals.  I've  heard  Grandmother 
Lincohi  sav,  many  a  time,  that  he  was 
kind  and  loving,  and  kept  his  word,  and 
always  paid  his  way,  and  never  turned  a 
dog  from  his  door.  You  couldn't  say  that 
of  ever^'  man,  not  even  to-day,  when  men 
are  decenter  than  they  used  to  be." 

A  shrill  cr}%  hke  that  from  a  fright- 
ened child  awakened  by  a  bad  dream, 
came  from  the  chair  in  the  sheltered 
corner. 

"  Whar's  my  watch?  Whar's  my 
watch?"  Old  Dennis  was  searching  his 
pockets  frantically,  and  tottering  to  a 
fall.  ]\Irs.  Dowling  rushed  to  liim  and 
set  him  upright. 

"  Here,  father,  here's  your  watch!  Xo- 
body's  going  to  take  it  from  you.  Uncle 


45 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

Abe  gave  him  that  watch,  and  he  gets  to 
dreaming  that  some  one  is  trying  to  rob 
him  of  it."  She  restored  his  cane  and 
hat,    and    disappeared    into    the    kitchen 


agam. 


i( 


i( 


"  Come  'ere,"  he  beckoned  mysterious- 
ly. "  If  you  won't  tell  nobody  I'll  show 
you  somethin'."  He  puUed  from  a  secret, 
inside  pocket,  a  heavj,  old-fashioned  coin- 
silver  watch,  with  a  steel  chain. 
Abe  gimme  that." 

When  Abe  left  home?"  hoping  to 
start  the  stream  of  memory  to  flowing, 
without  a  break  in  its  continuity.  He 
looked  puzzled.  IVIemorj^  had  leaped  a 
gap  of  thirty-five  years,  to  the  next  dra- 
matic event  in  that  simple  life. 

"  I  went  down  to  Washington  to  see 
Abe,  an'  thar  he  was  with  a  big  watch,  an'  a 
chain  spread  over  his  wescoat.  I  plagued 
him  about  bein'  so  fine,  an'  he  sez :  '  Den- 

46 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

ny,  I  bet  you'd  carry  a  watch  If  you  had 
one,  you  old  coon.'  He  went  out  an' 
bought  this  fur  me  an'  I've  carried  it 
ever  sence.  Ain't  many  follvs  ever  gits  to 
see  it.  Thar's  a  feller  up  in  Chicago,  that's 
plumb  crazy  over  Abe,  an'  he  offered  me 
five  hunderd  dollars  fur  it."  He  stowed 
the  precious  relic  away  carefully. 

"  I  went  down  to  Washington  to  see 
Abe  about  a  neighbor  that'd  got  into 
trouble.  It  was  durin'  the  war,  an'  thar 
w^as  a  lot  o'  soldiers  around,  stickin'  their 
blamed  guns  in  everybody's  faces.  I  hunt- 
ed 'round  fur  a  back  door  to  sneak  in, 
but  couldn't  find  none.  A  soldier  asked 
me  what  I  was  doin'  thar. 

"  '  I  want  to  see  Abe  Lincoln,'  I  sez. 

"  *  You  kain't  see  him  now,'  he  sez  like 
a  smarty. 

"  '  You  bet  I  kin.  Old  Dennis  Hanks 
hain't  come  clean  from  Illinois  to  git  his 

47 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

orders  from  a  jay-bird  like  you  I'  Te-he- 
he-he!  that  feller  or-ot  as  red's  an  old 
tiirkev  orobbler. 

"  Well,  I  waded  right  through  a  passel 
o'  folks,  an'  opened  a  door  they  was  all 
watchin',  an*  thar  sot  Abe  as  tall  an'  thin 
as  his  OT^^l  shadder,  at  an  oV  desk  he'd  tuk 
from  his  law  office  in  Springfield. 

"  '  Hey  I '  I  hollered,  '  git  up  thar  an' 
shake  I  I  ain't  after  no  office,  Abe.' 

"  He  run  an'  tethered  me  in  like  thev 
did  in  the  Bible,  so  I  had  to  take  out  mv 
bandanner.  Abe  looked  kuid  o*  tired.  I 
reckon  they  worked  liim  purty  hard  down 
thar.  but  he  lauo-hed  hearh^. 

"  '  I'm  glad  you  don't  want  no  office, 

Denny;  most  of   'em  do.   You've   got  a 

heart  as  bis*  as  a  steer,  but  vou  ain't  o-ot 

no  head  fur  an  office.'  I  up  an'  told  liim 

what  I  come  fur.  He  sez:  '  I'm  too  busv 

to-day,  Denny,  but  Stanton'U  fix  that  up 

48 


^^ 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

fur  you.  You  go  over  to  the  house  an' 
JMaiy'll  yive  you  somethin'  to  eat  an'  a 
shakedown.' 

"But  I  put  up  to  a  tavern  where  I 
could  feel  more  to  home.  Mary  was  a 
good  woman,  but  she  was  too  high-falu- 
tm  fur  me.  Abe  used  to  bring  her  over 
to  the  farm  to  visit  Aimt  Sairy,  an'  me 
'n'  him'd  set  an'  talk  about  old  times.  That 
riled  JMary  considerable.  She'd  git  on  her 
high  horse  an'  say:  *  If  Abe  was  low-down 
an'  pore  you  needn't  be  throwin'  it  up  to 
him,'  but  I  reckon  Abe  didn't  look  at  it 
thataway.  Abe  never  noticed  Mary's  pes- 
terin'  no  more'n  an  elephant  would  a 
skeeter.  He'd  jist  git  holt  o'  her  hand, 
'r  pat  her  on  the  shoulder,  an'  she'd  quiet 
down.  You  bet  JMary  was  a  good  woman 
or  Abe'd  never  'a'  loved  her  like  he  done.  > 
She  didn't  have  nothin'  ag'inst  his  kin- 
folks,  pussonal,  but  I  reckon  she  figgered 

49 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

it  out  that  we  wouldn't  help  xYbe's  chances 
none.  Mary  thought  the  sun  rose  an'  set 
in  Abe.  Thar's  one  thing  Abe  didn't  miss, 
his  women-folks  stuck  up  fur  him ;  Xancy 
an'  Aunt  Sairy  an'  3Iary,  an'  I  reckon 
that  made  up  fur  a  good  many  other 
things.  It  must  'a'  ben  the  way  he  treated 
'em.  Onct  he  said  to  me :  '  Dennv,  men 
oughter  be  mighty  good  to  women,  fur 
nature  give  'em  the  big  end  o'  the  log  to 
lift,  an'  mighty  little  stren'th  to  do  it 
with.' 

"  Mary  was  smart  an'  high-f  eelin'  about 
Abe.  When  they  was  fust  married  she'd 
toss  her  head  way  up  in  the  air  like  a 
blood-colt,  an'  tell  us  what  a  big  man 
Abe  was  goin'  to  be.  I  enjyed  laughin' 
over  that,  fur  when  a  feller's  as  honest 
as  Abe  was,  it  ginerally  stands  in  the  way 
o'  his  gittin'  on  in  the  world.  He  purty 
nigh  always  got  the  ^\aist  of  a  trade.  An' 

50 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN' 

then  he  didn't  look  great.  He  looked  jist 

like  the  rest  of  us,   only  some  humlier; 

kind  o'  common  an'  neighborly,  not  a  bit 

stuck-up.  You  jist  naturally  liked  to  set 

an'  visit  with  Abe. 

"  Well,  as  I  was  savin',  when  I  went 

down  to  Washington  near  the  end  o'  the 

war,  I  knowed  better 'n  to  put  !Mary  out 

when  mebbe  she'd  be  havin'  fine  comp'ny. 

Next  mornin'  Abe  gimme  the  papers  fur 

my  case  an'  told  me  to  take  'em  over  to 

Stanton. 

Abe,'  sez  I,  '  blamed  if  I  know  whar 

the  plageoned  place  is ! '  Abe  laughed  an' 

said  somethin'  about  the  mountain  com- 

in'  to  someun,  talkin'  in  parables  like  old 

tunes,  an'  sent  out  a  little  feller  'at  had 

on  brass  buttons  enough  to  stock  a  store, 

an'  purty  soon  Stanton  come  rampagin' 

in,  snarlin'  about  them  papers.  But  Abe 

made   him    sign    'em,    an'    he    went    out 

51 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

switchin'  his  spike-tail  coat  like  a  pesky 

crow.  An'  I  said: 

Abe,  if  I's  as  big  as  you  I'd  take 

that  little  feller  acrost  my  knees  an'  spank 

him.  He's  too  sassy.'  Abe  he  laughed  an' 

said   Stanton  was  a  bigger  feller 'n  him 

some  ways,  an'  I  said  he  had  a  darned 

ugly  way  o'  showin'  it.  But  that  was  jist 

like  Abe,  never  runnin'  anybody  down, 

findin'  the  good  in  'em,  an'  bearin'  with 

their  little  meannesses.  Abe  didn't  know 

how  to  be  mean  hisself .  When  God  made 

Abe  Lincoln  He  left  the  meanness  out 

fur    other    folks    to    divide    up    among 

'em.   I   reckon   the   rest   of   us    got   our 

sheer." 

Mrs.  Dov/ling  opened  the  door,  giving 

a  glimpse  of  a  bright  dining  room  and  a 

board  bountifully  spread.  Hospitality  was 

one  of  the  Hanks'  failings  also. 

"  Supper's  ready,  father.  You'll  have 

52 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

supper  with  us,  won't  you? "  to  the 
stranger. 

"Go  'way!  Lemme  'lone!"  cried  old 
Dennis  querulously,  like  a  spoiled  child 
interrupted  in  some  absorbing  play.  His 
daughter  made  a  comical  face  and  shut 
the  door  hastily.  Almost  instantly  he  fell 
asleep.  The  cheerful  sounds  of  the  family 
at  their  evening  meal  penetrated  to  the 
silent  room.  Life  goes  on  thus,  flowing 
smoothly  through  long  stretches  of  years ; 
morning  and  evening,  w^orking,  eating 
and  sleeping;  children  plaj^ing  in  the  sim 
and  growing  tall.  A  church  bell  called  to 
the  weekly  prayer-meeting.  How  peace- 
ful it  was,  how  reassuring!  Suddenly,  as 
startling  as  a  pistol  shot  in  the  silence, 
old  Dennis  cried  out  of  his  sleep: 

"  Dead!  Honest  Abe  dead!  My  God,  it 
ain't  so ! " 

He  w^as  staring  at  the  flickering  shad- 


OtJ 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

ows  of  the  firelight  on  the  wall,  in  dazed 
horror,  as  at  some  fearful  messenger.  Then 
he  aroused  himself  from  the  dream,  shifted 
uneasily  in  his  chair  and  sighed. 

"  I'A^e  heerd  that  night  an'  day  fur  nigh 
onto  twentv-five  years,  an'  I  kain't  believe 
it  yit.  I  was  settin'  in  my  shop  peggin' 
away  at  a  shoe,  when  a  man  come  runnin' 
in  from  the  street,  lookin'  like  a  ghost, 
an'  said : '  Dennis,  honest  Abe's  dead ;  shot 
dead!' 

"  It  was  in  Aprile,  an'  the  sun  w^as 
shinin'  an'  the  grass  turnin'  green,  jist 
as  if  nothin'  had  happened,  an'  it  seemed 
to  me  like  the  arth'd  stopped.  Thar  wasn't 
any  tradin'  done  sca'cely.  Ever}i:hing  was 
kivered  with  black,  an'  people  standin' 
round  in  the  streets  cryin'.  I  had  to  go 
out  to  the  farm  to  tell  Aunt  Sairy.  Tom'd 
ben  dead  a  good  while,  an'  she  was  livin' 
on  thar,  alone. 

54 


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THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

Aunt  Sairy,'  sez  I,  '  Abe's  dead.' 
Yes,  I  know,  Denny.  I  knowed 
they'd  kill  him.  I  ben  awaitin'  fur  it,' 
an'  she  never  asked  no  questions.  She  was 
gittin'  purty  old,  an'  I  reckon  she  thought 
she'd  soon  jine  him.  She  never  counted 
on  seein'  him  agin  after  he  went  down  to 
Washington,  nohow.  He  come  out  to  the 
farm  to  see  'er,  an'  when  he  kissed  her 
good-by  she  reached  her  old  hands  up  to 
his  shoulders  an'  looked  at  him  as  if  he's 
alayin'  in  his  coffin  then,  an'  sez  to  him: 
*  You'll  never  come  back,  Abraham!' 

"  '  Don't  you  worry.  Mammy,'  he  sez. 
'  I'll  come  back  all  right.'  But  Mary  sez 
Abe  hisself  thought  he  never  w^ould.  He 
had  them  warnin'  dreams  an'  second  sight, 
an'  them  ain't  healthy  signs. 

"  Well,  I  was  gittin'  purty  old  myself. 

I  was  sixtv-six,  an'  nothin'  but  a  little 

dried-up  nubbin  of  a  shoemaker.  I  didn't 

55 


THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

take  no  more  intrust  in  things,  an'  folks 

thought  I'd  go  next.  But  it's  ben  nigh  onto 

twenty-five  years,  an'  here  I  am  hvin'  yit, 

an'  not  wuth  shucks  to  nobody.  'Pears  to 

me  hke  thar  ain't  ben  nothin'  happened 

wuth  talkin'  about,  an'  nobody  much  wuth 

talkin'  to  sence  Abe's  gone. 

"  Some   folks   think  you  won't   know 

anybody  when  you  git  to  heaven,  but  I 

bet    I'll   know   Abe   Lincoln.    He    went 

straight  thar,  an'  I  ain't  takin'  no  chances 

on  it,  but  am  livin'  the  best  I  know  how, 

by  church  rules,  so  I  kin  go  to  heaven, 

too,  an'  meet  up  with  Abe.  Thar  was  a 

preacher  feller  come  here  onct,  an'  I  was 

talkin'  to  him  about  thar  not  bein'  any 

sense  in  Abe  bein'  shot  thataway,  an'  him 

only  fifty-six  an'  strong  as  a  boss.  An'  he 

said  'at  he  reckoned  Abe'd  done  his  work 

an'  the  Lord  knowed  best. 

Done   his  work,   hey? '   I   hollered. 

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THE    BOYHOOD    OF    LINCOLN 

'  He  hadn't  lived  his  hf e.  I  wouldn't  'a' 
give  a  darn  if  he'd  never  done  another 
lick  o'  work,  if  he'd  jist  come  home  an' 
let  me  visit  with  him  onct  in  awhile. 

"  Thar  won't  be  another  man  like  Abe 
Lincoln  this  side  o'  jedgement  day!" 


THE   END 


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